....

The Summer Tree.

You missed your niece decorating the Summer Tree
with strings of butterflies and flowers we bought
in Kelsall at the festival.
… then here she encircled small white stones
around dark flat slate and pointing at a
photograph softly asked, “who’s he ?” …

You missed your nephew skipping through
the hall and dripping choc ice onto a shoe
whilst balancing to kick a ball across the
grass beneath the washing line only pausing
in his childish rush to point at the photo
and softly ask, “who’s he ?” …

You missed your brother in silence stare
through the garden between the leaves onto
a thousand Summer Trees now faded cold behind
the horizon where once a cricket bat
sliced through the air and in triumphant dash you
ran and ran snapped by my camera in the fading sun.

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